


Tomorrow We Have Infinity

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Illuminations: Marvel [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Avengers: Infinity War, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bondage, Bottom Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dom Bucky Barnes, Gags, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, Riding Crops, Romance, Shibari, Spanking, Stucky - Freeform, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 06:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13992615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: The night before Thanos besieges Wakanda, Bucky and Steve steal a few hours for themselves to make love, fuck, and erase any thoughts of tomorrow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> This is my tribute to the stellar muse luninosity, whose prose sets a very high bar for creativity and emotional feels. After devouring half her work and watching the final Infinity War trailer, I was inspired to write this.

“The end is near.” His voice doesn’t hold any traces of despair, though a newly contemplative note rings where a touch of laughter ruled before. Steve’s reflection in the window catches the somber lines of his expression.

In five syllables, any vestiges of peace shatter and the frail vessel holding the sum of hope splinters. It never held together very well. Bucky is too much of a pragmatist now, after everything he has seen and done in his century of life.

Steve gazes at the metallic gauntlets laid out in a place of respect upon the table. Easier to focus upon their grooved lines than the careworn face behind him.

That, perhaps, hurts more than anything at a soul-deep level, beyond the places where the serum mends breakage in bones, splits in flesh. The diminishing line of those broad shoulders bears a burden too heavy for any one man.

A burden he should not have to take.

Where are the helicarriers and the phalanxes of iron suits in the sky? Who comes with the hidden stock of weapons, the caches unearthed from hidden vaults awaiting this moment?

There are none, and Bucky knows that every bit as well as Steve. They are the first and last line. Through them, on the morrow, the fate of the world hangs by a thread.

He indulges himself in a visual exploration of the blond man, who leads a collection of assorted god-aliens, mutates, magicians, and things without easy description. In the low light, his suit looks nearly black and leaves but his bearded face in relief. Sparks of gold dance along the strong line of the jaw clamped in resolution.

“Steve,” he dares to raise his voice. “The day isn’t over. Why cross that bridge before you get to it?”

Looking back over his shoulder, the scrawny kid from Brooklyn echoes in the faint grin and the warmth in sea-blue eyes. “Your dad used to say that.”

“Yeah, he did. Good piece of advice too, don’t you think?"

“He was a wise man.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“It’s not too late to get some sleep, Buck.”

Steve doesn’t turn around and the implicit offer, tempting though it may be, wraps around the unspoken promise. _Sleep, and I will keep watch_.

A stone drops into the unsettled sea of his stomach. They never used to spend those nerve-wracking hours in the pre-dawn before a battle like this. His arms and shoulders ache despite the late spring warmth, and he tips his head forward. A veil slides over his vision, a blur reducing their opulent room into smears of violet and warm honey toned floorboards.

How easily he crosses the floor and wraps his arms around Steve from behind, catching him part way through a turn.

Whatever questions lie on those pinched lips never have the chance to be said. They need not be said.

_No, you’ve never had to tell me when you hurt._

Once upon a time, James Barnes held his much frailer friend through the night when the boy coughed in a futile attempt to catch his breath. Not so different, except Steve is a whole lot taller and firmer than he used to be.

“Buck, what’re you doing? You need the sleep.”

“Captain’s orders?”

“We all need to be at our best tomorrow.”

The blond man freezes. Regret pins his words, uncertainty underscoring the frozen torsion. Hard to say which way he will go, what he wants.

For all that, Bucky’s arms remain in a firm circle spanning shoulder and chest, weaving in a possessive ring. Warmth exudes from Steve under his rough navy jacket and pants; sliding fingers under the hem, the assassin establishes a firm, certain anchorage. Skin to skin contact to remind Steve he is not alone.

“Shut up.”

Said with a dose of love and plenty of disapproval, he rumbles a complaint into the blond nape. Wheat hair roughly cut cushions his cheek and he presses his nose deeper until brushing up against skin. Getting dizzy on the clean notes of brandy and shaving soap may be one of the best experiences of having Steve to himself.

The harp string quavers; a pained laugh from his captain. Stomach muscles flutter under his vibranium hand, and he spreads his digits wide for as much contact as possible. Weaving long fingers into the open spaces, Steve covers his hand.

“Bucky.”

He falters again to the hitch as breathing quickens. Lips skim over the protruding knob under thin flesh and the protective skein woven from Kevlar and vibranium silkworms, for all Bucky knows. He is greedy for a taste of bare flesh, that heat spiking when he traces an ascending path.

Helping in his way, Steve tucks his chin closer to his chest.

The difference in heights places him on tiptoe, where once that blond head would have fit under his chin. A long, long time ago. Now he all but presses his chest into the long swoop of Steve’s back, the better to extend a row of kisses right up to his scalp and find that one infernal spot that tickles so well.

X marks it when another rusty laugh bursts out, too loud for the intimate surroundings. For a moment the spell collapses, and the captain pushes away his arms to break free.

Reluctant to release him, Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“If you think--”

“You need sleep.”

“Sleep is for the dead.” He bares his teeth, white and clean. “Trust me. I spent plenty of time frozen in a jar to know. Get your ass on the bed.”

The whip crack of command has never left him, honed by a man earning his sergeant’s badge on the battlefield. He feels the first stirrings of interest in his groin when Steve blinks, blue eyes wide, the feverish blush appearing a few seconds later.

 _Not often I tell you what to do. But damn if we don’t deserve this much tonight_.

“What?”

“Do I have to tell you twice? Get on the bed.”

Steve shuffles to the expansive platform swathed in dark sheets, his gait hobbled by invisible bands of unease and doubt. Rarely does their lovemaking take on a demanding turn, except in those rare times -- the bad ones -- when old habits call for force and deliberation against a kick or a punch.

Two steps and he swivels, seated on the edge of the mattress. Any doubt washes away from that handsome face turned up in quiet reverence.

Bucky’s heart melts. A spike of red hatred launches through his system, rattling in the cage of steel and ice that holds the dregs of the Winter Soldier.

_Don’t take this away from me._

That smile, shy and uncertain, forms as Steve rests his hands above his knees. Patient like a schoolboy waiting for the teacher to call on him, that posture throws the soldier right back to their days in ‘38 in Brooklyn.

_No. Please. No._

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a real looker?”

“Nah, never.”

A few jerks on zippers and buckles frees him from his own jacket, the sleeve slithering down the flesh arm and hitching at his elbow. He yanks away the collar to ease the whole garment off, tossed carelessly to the floor. Any kind of clutter makes Steve wrinkle his nose.

The heat-wicking base layer goes next, hauled by the neckline up over his head. When the silky fabric catches on the thin leather tie holding his hair back, it pulls the weight of those chestnut locks free in an uneven spill.

He goes to shake his head, and Steve reaches out.

“Here, let me.”

Who could deny that request? Stripped down to the waist leaves Bucky bared to the shock of the cold, not that the room ever changed temperature. A bead of sweat runs down the trough of his spine, and the languishing coolness bites into the stiff puckered nubs on his chest.

Watching him draw closer, Steve has his lower lip between his teeth and a distinct heat to his eyes that matches his flushed cheeks. Not even the healthy golden facial hair disguises the interest and heat arousal colours him with.

He tugs the leather thong away, dropping the tie carefully on the blanket beside him. Bucky turns his hand and lavishes two blunt nips on his fingertips, leaving no more than a dull burn in wake of a pinch.

More than enough to signal his intentions.

Their gazes meet again, scoured by the mahogany bangs long enough to hit his chest. Bucky doesn’t bother to brush them away. Rather he leans in to steal the taste of Steve’s mouth, his kiss slow and inexorable in its claims. Between the spaces of their tongues flows a moan, hard to say from whom, a jitter transmitted from one throat to the other.

It won’t be the only thing.

The bed grumbles in protest to movement and Steve halts the shift of his hips. A brief glimpse down confirms his growing hardness, pressing at the firm stitching of his pants.

“Let’s get you out of these.”

“Don’t let them go far?”

Steve’s question is perfectly reasonable and, for that very reason, Bucky shakes his head.

“Throw ‘em into the bathroom. All your gear,” he amends himself.

He won’t have their uniforms so close at hand in case someone raises an alarm. They already know danger will appear on the horizon before the sun, that it creeps through the forests and tests at the golden city’s illusions and defensive perimeter even now.

Still, Steve hesitates as he unzips his coat. “That extra time needed it they call us…”

He growls. “Thanos has stolen everything else, I’m not losing a chance to bed you too.”

That staunches the flow of words, if not the worry still grooved between Steve’s brows and on his forehead. As soon as he wriggles out of his coat, Bucky gives him no quarter.

His vibranium palm frames the captain’s cheekbone, anchoring him from turning away from a hard kiss. His tongue drives through parted teeth and curls, painting jealous whorls on the hard palate. A stifled noise of surprise melts into appreciation and Steve tips his head back, meeting with equal force and desire.

“It’s not like they intend to leave without us, anyways,” he mutters between the crush of their lips.

His urgency must translate because Steve removes his belt and loosens up the half-dozen straps securing his jumpsuit, showing all that army efficiency in stripping down what he can, still seated.

“Pants,” the blond says.

“Stand and present.”

He performs the command beautifully, with not so much as a shamed look. Steve rises smoothly and pushes down the waistband of his pants past his hips, white and blue striped boxers following. A rotation and he subtly pushes out his buttocks, feet spread almost at parade rest. He can’t quite manage, hobbled by his clothes.

Unable to resist the opportunity, Bucky grips his backside. One cheek smoothed over by the heat of his fingers deserves slow, thorough exploration. The metal digits tap a staccato route up the flank to the ridge of the hip bone, pattering a tattoo that dimples firm skin.

Steve places his hands on the bed to brace.

“Good,” Bucky says, and his hand whistles down to slap a red mark on the outside.

“One!”

He remembered. Love bubbles over from a hidden wellspring. A pink handmark outlined against his cheek thrills the soldier’s heart to see.

“I’d leave you bright red, but circumstances require a change in plans.”

Another smack balances the print with one on the opposite buttock, and the ripple of impact spreads over the taut muscle.

Steve stares fixed at the wall. “Two.”

Shoulders flex and his back bows slightly, hardly necessary to balance the warmth spreading out from the spanking.

“You don’t like it, do you.”

“No.”

“No?” The question lingers in the air. “It wouldn’t be very wise of me to rough you up before we’re supposed to fight.”

Steve grits his teeth. “I’ll heal.”

Yes, he will. The question is, can they afford any strain on his healing capacity when everyone -- not only the Avengers, the whole planet -- relies on Steve’s top performance? He stays his hand for a moment.

Only a moment. The third and fourth blows strike down, and slide into the groove between his firm cheeks to find the tight pucker clenched shut and, lower, his heavy sack already contracting.

“Are you hard?”

The blush on his face starts to match the pinkness of his ass.

“Yes, Bucky,” he replies.

Not quite what he was hoping for. Bucky pinches the inside of Steve’s thigh, selecting a point fairly high and vulnerable on the inner muscle. His captain hisses and stamps his boot.

A quick recalculation follows. “Yes, _sir_. My cock is hardening.”

“Yeah, your cock is so damn eager.”

His warm thumb travels up the meandering vein fed along the underside, tracing the tributaries branching off to the sides, giving that beautiful definition and colour. He has plans for that magnificent shaft.

No time to waste, not even on this, when they’ve barely begun. Bucky alternates strikes and smoothing over the heated flesh, turning Steve’s ass a bright, hot red. Fully aware from his own experience, he knows the serum will never reduce to the sting to a form of numbness. Each spanking flowers as hot as the first.

Through it all, Steve manages not to cry out. He sways forward, trapped between the bed and Bucky’s hand. His fingers curl hard into the mattress, rather than his upper thighs. Heavy breathing grows ragged as the pace increases.

Then it stops, abrupt as it began.

“Mother bloody effing.”

A tap lightly on the balls stops Steve from swearing any further. The reminder proves ideal as he shuffles his ankles apart further, revealing a glimpse of his balls tucked up tight against his body and his rigid phallus already oozing a precious bead of precum.

Flexing his wrist, Bucky rubs his stinging palm and surveys the room. Everything he possibly needs is within arm’s reach except two supplies, and those are easy to fetch.

“I expect you to be spread-eagle when I return. Present your ass.”

In the stirring of lust, Steve hastens to fall forward onto his belly, his t-shirt hauled up under his arms. Reaching out in supplication to the tribal gods patterned on the wall, he starts to slide his legs open. A bit of struggling kicks off his boots, leaving them to clatter onto the floor.

The pants caught around his knees need dealing with, and Bucky gladly seizes the waistband to pull and haul them off. He hurls the trousers sidearm into the bathroom, a hooked throw that curls the bundle around the jamb, and crashing into the shower.

Some of the best things in life are on display before him. Backside upright and on flaming display, Steve scoots back a little further to show off his spanked cheeks to a mirror and little else.

“Green, Buck.”

Their signals are simple enough, giving the go ahead to continue. Bucky heads into the bathroom to fetch a towel, and a closet to grab a bag of finely woven rope strong enough to execute on a vision dancing in his head.

Regrets about lost opportunities can wait for the morning, though he shoves aside doubt and fear for the few hours they have left. Losing himself in work is the best chance at happiness left.

When he returns, Steve still lies on his stomach, not even squirming. He turns his head towards Bucky, taking in the lumpy bag full of sinuous coils and the towel, but knows better than to ask.

The question is plain, anyways.

“Oh, the old, familiar dance.” Usually they save _shibari_ for really special occasions, or those hours when degenerate impulses plague the soldier. “Figured we could celebrate.”

“What’s the holiday?”

Bucky glances out the window. Impossible to be certain of the hour, the country stilled to a harmonic buzz, defiant and illuminated against the oncoming storm.

“Chernobyl Disaster Day.”

Steve stares and throatily chuckles. “You planning on a meltdown?”

“Bringing you to one, yeah. Though if it’s still Wednesday, it’s Italian liberation day.” Bucky starts pulling ropes out from the bag, spools of them landing at cardinal points around Steve. “The one they celebrate for getting rid of the Nazis.”

Better memories, bittersweet ones. The captain relaxes back onto the bed, not flagging in the least. A tremor visibly races down his spine and he draws up a deep breath.

“I figure that’s a better omen.”

“Didn’t take you for the superstitious type. Or a talker in bed.”

“You want me to be quiet, I’ll be quiet.”

Sure he will, but how can Bucky pass up an opportunity like the one laid out in front of him? He goes down to one knee to pull out the roughed up box inside a green army regulation duffel bag from under the bed. Jangling loudly, the contents betray a familiar cadence.

Steve gets his head up fast enough to triangulate on the soldier’s position, and his eyes widen in glazed lust. The bright red ball rolling in Bucky’s palm holds his attention, and he forces out the most perfect, shaken sigh.

“Open your mouth.”  
  
Bucky doesn’t have to ask twice. He forces the fat ball into the space between Steve’s teeth, clearing black silicone straps past his cheeks. One finger hooked underneath the strap smooths any curls for a close fit, and complementary murmurs vibrate along the sphere. Buckling the gag in place means smoothing out longer hair; they never really compensated for that.

“Nnngh.” Steve obliges by forcing out an incomprehensible sound. His mouth gleams, already wet.

“Pity you didn’t shave today. I’d like watching the drool roll down your chin.”

Among the other items out of sight, Bucky looks for the set of mag-cuffs, purloined from SHIELD after the agency fell. Heavy and bulky, he carries them over.

Steve’s eyes are wide, but he holds his hands firmly at the headboard. The subtle flex and bend of his wrists ripple where the rest of him is still, nigh shaking.

“I know, I know,” says Bucky. “Change of plans. Let’s start with these until I have you bound up the way I want.”

Lightly the grip breaks and the blond wings his arms back to rest against the small of his back, presented for whatever indecent concepts swirl around his boyfriend’s brain. For such halcyon displays of trust and affection, he receives a lingering kiss on his neck.

Bucky sucks the skin, pulling heat into a short-lived mark that brands Steve Rogers as _his_ , the way it should be. No matter what else follows, he lays his claim on body and heart, mind and soul, beginning one step at a time.

The mag cuffs go on easy, once engaged. Heavy and inelegant compared to what they use in Wakanda, he rather likes their Soviet era appeal, and better yet, Steve struggling in futility when forced to the peak of an orgasm. He locks both wrists into the figure eight, the solid clunk of engaged magnets leaving the blond spitting a stream of precum onto the towel.

“Nnnghy.” Hearing Steve moan his name is a pleasure without compare.

“Impatient?”

A shake of the golden head follows, but Bucky swats at his ass until the pink glow and rolling hips are thoroughly distracting his lover from any other thoughts.

Leaning down to get his lips close to Steve’s ear, the assassin croons his approval in the darkest tones.

“You look beautiful helpless for me. I’m going to bind you up on the bed, and after I lap your hole, I intend to fill it with everything I can find. My fingers, my tongue, my cock.”  
  
Steve trembles and his hips thrust. Too much flexibility and movement in his lower body will be resolved shortly to both their satisfaction, but he can’t help that indolent roll to beckon attention back where it’s needed most.

Bucky runs his nails up and down the captain’s back. In short order he retreats, gathering up yards of broad satin ribbon in bright, lustrous carmine, the colour of cherries in the hot summer sun. Beginning to wind that around Steve’s leg, Bucky secures the tail end under tight, firm wraps spanning his thigh.

“I’ll have you spread wide open, a ribbon around your cock. You can watch your balls bounce in the mirror as I plunder your hole,” he continues, speaking more for Steve’s sake than his own.

A whine around the ball gag signals approval even if Steve strains to hold still, the tightening grip stretching two inches wide and growing around his leg. Concerned by neatness, the soldier pulls the ribbon tight, spreading new bands as Steve gets increasingly wrapped by a present.

 _He gets so damn impatient._  Bucky smiles to himself, never ceasing to work.

“Do you want to be fucked, Steve?”  
  
“Mmmf!”

He pauses to pull Steve’s chin towards him, meeting that brilliant gaze with his own faded out blue.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Steve struggles against the gag. Whatever he was trying to say in response will never be clear, garbled. A quick toss of his head fails to remove the ball between his lips. 

“I know,” Bucky says. He kisses Steve’s brow. “But I want you screaming my name in pleasure and we can’t have our host running in, assuming I turned.”

It could be their last night together, their last night at all. He'll be damned if they were going down without a blowout of another kind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways.  
> \-- Rumi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you for reader feedback, comments, and kudos. The next chapter is due to get hotter and heavier.

Their trysts on soft sheets favour late hours, long after anyone sane is abed and unlikely to knock on the door with a question. Privacy counts when committing acts of hedonistic adoration, trussing up Steve Rogers, depriving him of movement and the capacity to speak.

Bucky cares not to think what Bruce or Tony or Sam think of his nocturnal activities, much less those in the waning hours he may have with the one steadfast friend and love who got him through far worse situations. Nights full of spectral violence and teeth-chattering agony, faded sepia memories replayed over and over until he can near narrate every last line and gesture by rote.

Knowing nothing of what lies over the horizon, he dedicates himself to lavishing care upon the cuffed man stretched out upon the bed, his hips cantilevered up several inches over the towel spread out to catch the wet streamers of precum dripping pearlescent from the tip of his darkening cock. Thick mag-cuffs, SHIELD make and design, interlock along a powerfully bound seam of neodymium, resisting even the captain’s great strength to pry them apart without some kind of titanic effort involving bulging muscles, grunting, and straining against the Earth’s pull upon a favoured son.

Steve lies mostly quiet, if alert, walking the twilight between the dusk of arousal and sunny perceptiveness. Nerves burn them both, betrayed by a jitter when Bucky wraps his thigh in scarlet ribbon or the shaky breath torn free from fluttering lungs that refuse to maintain a steady rhythm.

“You look so damn good gagged,” the soldier says as he circles around the bed.

A heavy box shrouded inside a beaten-up duffle bag contains the makeshift collection of rope, toys, and _aides d’amour_ he managed to collect during their foray in Wakanda. A nudge at the canvas side reveals what he wants, a plastic bottle of lube that flows almost like water inside. The red and black nightmask holds promise, but he shakes his head, moving on. Those warm crystal-blue eyes completely losing focus and glazing over while pleasure ruins Steve may be his favourite spectator sport.

The fat ball secured in Steve’s open mouth prevents him from replying in any coherent way, though the odd sound leaks out for an opportune smack that keeps his buttocks a deep rose and thighs a clear pink. Resting somewhat on his knees, he holds as still as he can with the shadows and sandalwood ghosting around him, the best measure of Bucky’s progress.

Tossing the bottle in the air, the brunet catches it right-side up and plants the acquisition between the pillows right in line of sight for his bound captive. The perfect spot for Steve to focus and wonder when that will come into a play, or worry it might be a mcguffin. Some nights, he is left hard and urgently in need of release, denied an orgasm for long stretches just to whet his appetite and desperation for it before dawn breaks.

Pink radiates through the captain’s cheeks, the thick tawny whiskers doing nothing to conceal the uneasy acceptance of his predicament. But for Bucky, tearing down those old Depression-era taboos is part of the fun. He lays his cooler vibranium hand along the bunched squeeze of the ass and slides up, a possessive squeeze generating a gurgled murmur of no real consequence around the gag.

“You’ve been patient,” he murmurs, as though they have all the time in the world and ships aren’t hurtling through interplanetary space and others, heavy with a cargo of deadly outriders, do not hover in the sky pummelling Wakanda’s protective shields.

A toss of the blond head and Steve tries to follow Bucky visually as best he can, his fingers spreading and curling in a futile effort against the magnetic seams holding his arms together at the wrists. Straining fingers might reach the top of the cleft parting his smacked buttocks, appreciating the warmth radiating from there, but without any capacity to stimulate himself.

Abundant coils of rope in black and red lie around the bed, left at the points of the compass rose. Headed for the south, Bucky picks up the neat circle and unspools the tidy round until he comes up with a loose end. The supple bend and flex of the binding between his hands hints at the filaments spun throughout to strengthen the initial diamond lattice, something not even the serum can easily overcome.

He loops the rope just above the magnetic cuffs, and chuckles at Steve’s rising inquiry. The tightened loops pull the blond man’s wrists closer together, and Bucky carries the rope up to the elbows for another figure-eight loop that limits their distance apart. Two good pulls maintain tension and force Steve to roll his shoulders back, displaying the muscular lines of his chest.

 _A pity he’s face down._ All sacrifices in good stead, though.

Sooner or later, the simple act of tying is going to start chafing his nipples through his cotton shirt and create those arresting groans out of his ball-gagged mouth. In fact, Bucky counts on it.

Twin serpents in deep red stand out boldly against Steve’s warm skin, and they wrap beautifully around the existing elbow ties as he ties off the tension after a double wrap. He drags up parallel to the spine, repeating the same process above the elbows so the complementary knots scale higher and higher until he properly has three sets matched to one another.

Those other lifelines count, the vocal ones as much as the brush of his palm over bare skin.

“You look delicious tied up.”

Steve shakes his head slightly.

Bucky cocks his head and brings his palm down in a quick double smack on the upturned ass, watching his boyfriend ride out the spreading heat and fading sting. How he loves seeing the struggle, the sway in the back and hunched shoulders, the heavy bob of the darkening cock demanding attention.

“Do I need to ring you?”

Another shake of the head.

“Do you _want_ the ring on?”

“Nnnhnnn.”

Fluttering lashes steady and the captain looks back, struggling to make eye contact. When they find one another, every time it’s like sunlight passing through a window into a hidden part of his psyche. Champagne bubbles in the blood, a heady joy tempered by the terrible awareness this may never be more than a fleeting moment to sustain them all their lives.

If they live.

_If._

Bucky’s eyes sting. He turns, wiping his wrist over his face, not altogether certain or caring if he is seen. He stoops to find the simple silicone band about an inch and a half wide, easily slid into place by a little careful maneuvering around Steve’s engorged crown and down his length to the root. When he snaps the silicone cuff in place, almost immediately the flushed hue of that stiff prick darkens to lilac.

Stooping to place a kiss on his ass soon becomes another foray to braid lust and helplessness, a potent elixir if there ever was any. As much as Bucky yearns to spread that puckered hole open with his fingers, he refuses to rush. This must be perfectly balanced, as all things should be, split between eagerness and slow, bone-melting build up. Instead, he dips his head and lightly circles the crenellated rim with the tip of his tongue.

At the initial moment of contact, Steve bucks as hard as he can. The tense ropes shift and pull, giving him barely any rise. He manages to thrust back onto the warm lips and lapping muscle fluttering around his anal ring, flirting with delving deeper, but the denial of even that much has him spitting out profanity and groaning for the brunet. With the gag filling his mouth, he cannot halt the drooling, though the ring around his cock certainly keeps him churning.

Several laps over the starburst leave it mildly gleaming and Steve pushing back, hopeful ever that he might be impaled. Fingers curled possessively around the line of his hips are sure to bruise, but Bucky teases by drawing _Barnes_ over and over upon the quivering hole until it almost starts to part of its own volition.

Ready for a finger. Ready to be fucked. Not nearly close enough to being prepared, though, a premature outcome keeps the soldier from proceeding. Another kiss suckles on the ring, forcing it outwards to meet the vacuum seal of his mouth.

He stops.

Incoherent in the low-burning fire of lust, Steve is nigh drunk on the sensation and its absence comes as a bucket of cold water, dousing the spreading film of sweat and distraction from any kind of thinking.

Another coil of rope slaps against his shoulder as he is hauled upright, brought onto his knees so Bucky can complete the chest harness. That invokes a certain amount of trust as he loops the next segment of cherry rope around the neck, not in any sense a noose, but essential for spanning the breadth of Steve’s shoulders. “You’re doing so well.”

Encouragement receives a fluttery gasp and Steve nods, head drawn low.

Bucky crosses the lines and twists the ends through to form a diamond straight along his breastbone. Weaving and feeding the ends through the central diamond creates another beautiful segmentation.

Tension has Steve rocking on his knees, incapable of resisting some motion. His shaft bobs between his ribbon-wrapped thighs, pointing straight up, occasionally smacked by the polished red rope. Every additional point of the lattice confines his chest a little more, and Bucky weaves the excess until the points radiate in nearly every direction like the sun.

Or a man who wears a star on his uniform.

Aesthetics and geometry call for symmetry below, forming another diamond above Steve’s navel flexing hard against his ropework bindings. At the bottom of the rib cage, Bucky pulls the taut ropes around to cross them snug to the tailbone. He smooths his hands down the knots in front and back, tugging here and there to straighten the effect.

Steve’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his pupils dilated somewhat. The drool on his chin splatters down onto his chest, and Bucky gathers some, smearing it over the peaked nipples framed by the rope. His work balances bold slashes of red against swatches of fair skin, muscle given the ideal outlines to emphasize shadowy planes.

The brunet licks his lips. How can he resist? Every inch of that body begs to be marked, by lips or crop or worshipful hands. Steve taunts him even in this completely helpless state, proud and loving and submitting to the most defiled whims.

“One last touch. Close your eyes.”

Depriving a bound man of sight is unnecessarily cruel, to some. Asking him to do it voluntarily puts a thrill right into the uncomfortably hard shaft begging for Bucky’s attention. He licks his lips again when Steve shuts his eyes and waits.  
  
The final touch is a simple one, another length of ribbon that he unspools from the last of the cardboard roller. With it, the satiny kiss joins the bindings that wind around the upper thighs and calves, but Steve cries out in short, rapid pangs as the serpentine smoothness coils around his cock. Another end spindles around his balls, converging on the snug silicone ring holding him fat, erect, and completely unable for the moment to cum.

Bucky’s fingers shake as he ties the ends into a bow, leaving just the bell-end and an excess inch of skin visible.

The very sight puts him to his knees, landing with a muted thump on the floor before Steve in all his bound, aching nudity, glorious, a Greco-Roman demigod on eternal display. The noise brings those golden lashes fluttering, apologetic.

“Nnngkh?”

_I’m going to love you until the stars bleed from the sky and the moon falls. Til the end of the line, and past that._

Gritting his teeth, Bucky wipes the tears off his cheeks but they flow freely, unabated. No more retreat into the ice cold of his thoughts, doused behind the archaic remnants of Winter’s training. The assassin’s reserve is gone.

“All good.” Taut and quavering, his voice breaks when injected by a smile. “Just admiring my work.”

Steve slowly opens his eyes, which normally might constitute reason for the mask or a blindfold. _Never_. Love dawns in his gaze, hope and frail shreds of fear an inclusion in his ponderous gaze settling upon the man on his knees, a high priest beseeching the gods.

A drop of precum splatters on the floor, offering performed in mute supplication.

That breaks the bittersweet delirium. “It’s time to begin.”

Bucky smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

With the windows open, something magical settles around the spacious room claimed by Bucky and Steve.

It’s as if the spirit of Wakanda decides to bless them. Gossamer strands of light dance across a violet sky stained impossibly deep and rich shades. As soon as he pushes back the clattering blinds, Bucky catches his breath.

He only meant to add spice to lovemaking by making it possible for any bystander to possibly see a near legendary hero naked, bound, begging for a fucking.

They both stare at the spectacle of auroral plasma dancing through the midnight heavens, radiant lilac streamers caught in drifting curtain. Starlight trickles through in spite of the neon glow of the golden city, etching every shadow in an ultraviolet sheen.

The gag stuffed in Steve’s mouth does nothing to muffle the startled sigh through his flared nostrils or the softening in his fever-bright blue eyes.

“That’s really something, isn’t it? The whole country putting on a show just for us.”

Bucky turns his back on the dream-lit, surreal experience for a sight as unearthly in its beauty. He can’t deny the way the altered light transforms Steve into a mythical hero, revealing the cut muscles of his abdomen or the dusky rose pinkness of nipples begging for loving abuse.

Steve nods.

“Seems only right we put on a show for it, don't we?”

The response, a choked moan of lust, triggers the flight of a hundred butterflies in his clenched stomach. Bucky slides his own hand into his pants, curling his fingers around his erection. Slow strokes strain the fabric almost to the tearing point, and he releases the button holding the trousers together.

Wakandan fashion rarely uses zippers. He uses this to his advantage, flexing his fingers to push the knuckles up. Steve stares helpless, arms in a rope binder behind him and cuffed at the wrists, as Bucky takes his slow pleasure masturbating. The crisscrossed ties, barely concealed by an overlapping placket, strain wide. Through the gaps his moving metal digits sharply contrast the aroused reddened shaft.

The moans get even louder.

“Good to have your attention, sweetheart. I wondered if you were gonna stare outside at the sky all night.”

Steve hazily blinks and clenches his buttocks, causing his cock to jerk within a cocoon of red ribbon.

 _So that’s how it’s gonna be_. A delicious act of minor insubordination to set the tone.

On the ground beside the bed, a duffel bag contains a box of all the assorted toys and supplies Bucky cobbled together on relatively short notice. The ropes already wrap around his boyfriend in a spectacular harness, starbursts radiating over his chest and down his abdomen, connected to the ropes holding his arms back.

Swiftly discerning the other objects within, he stoops to pick up a thin, flexible stick wrapped in lesser kudu leather and comparable in every sense to a crop, for all the design varies from what they’re used to at home.

The air sings in a high, pure note when he brings the tip down into his flesh palm. A faint pink line rises at the site of impact, and he can feel the weight of that crystal blue gaze riveted to his spreading fingers.

Steve has every idea where that will eventually end up.

The next is far more familiar, a string of glossy black beads revealing their transparency when held up to the light. As a necklace, they might rest on the proud neck of a man or woman floating around the city.

“These are going in you, one by one.”

An unnecessary announcement, but the profound weight of Bucky’s soft words command attention. “I expect you to take them, and not to cum when you do. Understand?”

Steve nods, a swift, sharp reaction.

“Good.”

He moves around behind the blond, seeking out the bottle of lube left at the pillows in full display. Pouring out a liberal amount into his hand, he runs the chain of graduated globes through the slick until absolutely certain they drip with their coating.

All the while, the bound captain assumes his position facing the open window where any passing drone or cloaked ship might see him wrapped up like a present, on display. Not once does he crane his head to look back and watch the preparations made solely for him. To suggest he is impassive is a mistake, but only Bucky sees his fingers curling against hi palms and the strain of his elbows, the quiver of the inviting pink whorl of muscle between his cheeks waiting like a bullseye.

Already softened up from a thorough rimming, the ring takes a lavish palmful of remaining lube well. Bucky deliberately makes the stroke almost impersonal, like a physician applying a glob before a prostate exam. The cold tightens up the muscle temporarily, recapturing any gains to loosen it.

“You’re excited, huh? Just can’t wait to get a finger in here,” he comments. “You’re a slut, sweetheart.”

The keen bubbles around the silicone ball damming Steve’s lips, wedged hard behind his teeth. The straps flex and resist the tongue pushing at it.

“My slut.”

He spanks his fingers down on the glistening ring and watches the contraction tighten up the hole, and travel past the clenched fists right up Steve’s spine.

 _Perfection_. One of these days he should record the sight and watch it together, snuggled on the couch.

If they have any more days. If day dawns again.

Bucky’s eyes shut as he wrestles with his thoughts to maintain composure and sink back into almost meditative focus. Tonight is for Steve, _always_ for Steve, a release from the gnawing doubts that have plagued every military commander back to Ur and nameless, forgotten cities on the fertile rift valley of Africa.

He loves the man awaiting him, patient and eager, leaning onto his knees to present his buttocks a little.

Wrapping a securing arm around Steve’s hip, the soldier presses the first slippery bead up to that dark rosette. Normally he would prefer something smaller growing large, but nothing of that design caught his eye. The first tiger-eye sphere is large around as a quarter, hardly tremendous, but definitely pressing up against grudging muscle refusing to part for its polished curves.

Steve’s fighting him, deliberately clamped down. Two can play at that.

Fingers spread to anchor over the flat washboard of the blond’s abs, and Bucky works his slippery thumb against the stem of the necklace chain. He shoves, rotating the bead, and the muscle slowly dilates, aided by slick oiling to reduce friction. Breath fractures above him, the frantic inhalations accompanying the burn at the widest point.

Vacuum pressure sucks in the sphere, and the pink rosette closes to the short length of glossy rubber in the lewdest way. Bucky’s cock throbs and wet heat spreads out against the front of his pants. He, too, is going to need a cock ring at this rate, and it always pays to be prepared. That’s why they have three.

Repeating the process takes a full two minutes, by which time Steve is openly squirming and gyrating his hips, in part to stem the pressure on his prostate. The flip side means he gains stimulation every time the heavy spheres move around, clustered close to the dense pocket of nerves.

In fact, Bucky counts on it, prodding the greedy anal ring with his metal finger. Every jounce rocks the balls together, clacking and squeezing, up against the velvet inner wall. He spares no gentleness, starting with a vigorous finger-bang to get any retreat from orgasm right back up to full boil.

The captive, bound man slides on his knees near the end of the bed but has nowhere to go, not with the hand mounted around his navel. It’s only Bucky’s imagination he can feel the spheres deep inside against his palm.

 _For now_.

Only when the sounds escaping Steve’s throat resemble a manic tea kettle does the pounding with one unyielding digit end, and that finger pulled out leaves the rim of his puffy rose hole spread out, conformed to the shape of the finger violating it.

“I love you,” Bucky repeats.

He bows his head to bite the fleshy curve of Steve’s buttock hard. Pink marks in twin crescents rise, though they will fade before the golden sunlight resolves into a broad disk. The force and sting cause his beloved to jerk his hips, arching his spine in profound offering.

The target of the affectionate use is just barely gaping, the hole quivering visibly in search for relief.

“We good?”

A nod answers the question. Onto the next step.

The serum they share in common, even if one is a bastardized Soviet version, prevents any damage from piling up quickly. But with that blessing comes the darker side Bucky knows all too well -- that numbness never follows pain, and the harmed flesh can take so much more.

He rubs the leaf-shaped tip of the crop against Steve’s chest, painting whorled and angular designs within the diamond pane separated by red rope. Drool spreads along with the soft kudu leather, leaving cobwebs shining in between the thicker red latticework.

Watching isn’t easy with a ball gag and his current position, but Steve gamely tries to split his attention between the innocent flag and the pale-eyed man holding it. Lust radiates from him in a palpable heat halo, if not the incessant throbbing of his ribbon wrapped cock.

He isn’t prepared for the blinding speed of the crop striking the tip of his nipple, flattening the nub back into his pectoral muscles. A howl erupts behind the gag prizing his jaws apart.

Bucky runs his thumb over the bead of precum on Steve’s tip, and brings that evidence to eye level.

“Already? That’s just one, my darling cockslut.”

The pearly gloss looks to pretty smeared on his red, stretched lips. It will torment Steve, to be deprived the tangy flavour, as much as it arouses him.

“Let that be a reminder of how gorgeous your fucked pucker looks drooling my cum.”

Bucky can hardly get the words out. He swings the crop to lightly tap the already anointed, stinging nipple.

Steve’s eyes roll back for only a moment, his body slack and arching.

Another few idle swings leave the air singing in high notes of apprehension and promise, a tingling dance delivered against the nerves in his pink nub. The leathery leaf never connects except in the faintest kiss, leaving him reeling from phantom sensations not really there.

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky whispers.

Captain Rogers is. He can’t not be.

Another close call has the blond flinching whenever the impact fails to strike and still arching his back to present his diamond-bound chest. Smothered in the _shibari_ lattice, Steve is a perfect target, irresistible to layer in pink welts until he blushes from the heat.

Bucky repeats three fast blows to the untouched nipple, and that has Steve grinding his heels into his buttocks, his cock swaying side to side with what little play the ribbons and the ring allow.

What the soldier brushing his brunet hair from his face knows is the sensitivity, the unrelenting tenderness that swells out the plump nub. When it gets too much to bear even a touch is a curse of the serum, and a blessing.

“Five,” he says.

Steve’s eyes widen and his chin lifts, the wetness glistening on his tawny beard below the round ball increasing when he swallows. But his gaze never wavers.

“I love you.”

Benediction from a fallen angel. The crop whistles: four strikes to the left, one to the right, an imbalance meant to tantalize. The stiffening point stands out from the puckered areola in defiance and he swats it from all sides, pushed down, then the sides. Tapping the underside of the shaft with the leaf-tipped crop has Steve rigid and moaning.

The tradeoff of leather for grooved metal only increases the bubbling, especially when Bucky uses a touch light as a feather. Narrow vibranium channels along the side of his thumb do the work of stimulating the bud, batting it about let to right.

Static groans build up in frequency with the tender caresses, far stronger -- _worse, so much worse_ \-- than when Steve took the cropping to his nipples.

He shifts about and the heavy spheres buried in his ass do their work, mildly rolling in fresh configurations that toy with his prostate. Just the way Bucky intended.

Taking his sweet time, he strokes and plucks on the deep pink buds, elongating them by longer pinches until they are puffy, sweet targets.

For his tongue.

Steve gurgles by this point, jabbing his cock in upward thrusts, head fallen forward instead of back. He can barely see over the crown of Bucky’s dark chestnut hair, the veil fallen to hide the slow lapping of his tongue. To be deprived that is torture, especially when those full, warm lips refuse to close and suck the beleaguered, fat nipple in earnest.

But he’ll take the rough-sweet velvet of the tongue wrapped around the straining, throbbing heat. Teeth, too, when they grip the base and tug. His balls are probably boiling, only a little precum pushed out.

“By rights, you oughta be leaking, sweetheart,” Bucky mutters, sending vibrations down through the nipple caught between his teeth.

Nodding, the blond is lost in a daze, exactly as he should be. The fugue of desire pushes aside all threats, all outward concerns about the world.

He’s exactly where he needs to be for them to stand a chance tomorrow.

Helpless.

Aching.

Loved.

How the rest of them feel confronting a terror beyond their wildest imagination. Let everyone else sleep in their beds tonight believing Steve can manage the burden they can’t bear, settled safely with the knowledge he will shield them.

He will, as Bucky shields him.

Twin taps with the crop to his balls are little more than minor punctuation marks in the grand symphony, Barnes’ magnum opus in C sharp.

Startled from his reverie, Steve blinks and his slack expression animates, eyebrows rising, and the desperate little circles of his hips trying to shake off the sting.

At once Bucky descends on his other nipple, pulling with his teeth until the bud stands out rudely from its surrounding pool of swollen pinkness. “You noticed that.”

Nodding approves of it. The crop weaves a line parallel to the diamonds wrapped around Steve’s torso, delineated by hard, glistening flesh now coated in a thin layer of perspiration. Bucky loves the way the delicate leather spade trails across the healthy glow, dragging upwards, leaving shivers in its wake.

Rapid, quick taps land all over Steve’s unkissed nipple, knocking about the stalwart sentry over the chest. The perfect harmony comes from the grunts stifled by the ball gag, a guiding light that helps him set the tempo.

He bites and nips at the fat nub without giving proper suction. It’s going to stand as full and swollen as possible before he surrenders to that need, aching and plump for hours.

“You’re gonna have those unbearably tender nipples rubbing your uniform when we go out,” he says around bites and kisses.

Is he even heard? Bucky isn’t so certain, because the melody of the cracking beads rolling together and the performance tenderly bringing Steve to peak sensitivity has the blond lolling in his bondage, head thrown back.

Bucky grins against the shelter of Steve’s firm skin. _I don’t think I’ll apologize for it._

He eventually has to move, and he does, sliding off the bed and laying the crop next to a spread, ribbon-wrapped thigh. Guiding his boyfriend to a place of blissful lust is always a worthy endeavour. He reaches out to stroke the swollen, elongated nipples, and catches them in his fingertips.

The first pull has that fat cock below standing at obscene attention, the bow snug to the base. He strokes ever so lightly, stretching the engorged tips out.

“Remember when we measured how big these got in the suction tubes?” he asks, unwilling to disguise the raw lust in his voice.

Steve’s eyes widen through a glaze of teary euphoria, and he goes very still in the tangle of imprisoning ropes.

A flick to a nipple makes him cry out, and then nod, strings of clear drool splattering the nipple that Bucky tugs out as far as it can go, and releases. Natural elasticity is near gone, the degree of its swelling turning the bud near red.

“Yeah, I wanted to find a pair, but no luck.”

He leans over, giving a long, fondling lick that rolls the nub around his tongue. He loves the pebbled texture, the way it stiffens to resist him toying with the cropped underside.

“Clamps, though, I do have.” His gaze lifts up the line of Steve’s hairless chest, locking onto the brilliant eyes.

“To go right here.”

He pinches the far bud and holds it clamped between vibranium pads, milking every millimeter from base to tip.

The blond is quivering, nodding unconsciously.

“And right here.” The second pinch settles in, fingers applied to hot titflesh.

He pulls.

Steve cums.

Or he would cum, if not for the ring preventing him from gaining any kind of release.

The vibrant roll of his hips becomes a roughshod galloping thrust as much as those limited bonds allow. Grunts turn in cadence to a frustrated cry, even as the slow oppositional twist corkscrews the nipples left, right, abusing their stinging tips and shafts to Bucky’s dreamy smile.

The anal beads filling his ass on a string roll heavily over his prostate and gather in hidden spots, weighing down on the cum-heavy sea unable to find an outlet. So the pressure builds, stirred on by the brief foray of blood rushing back to plump up his nipples to their utmost.

Bucky has two small indigo pegs to add to his work, and he spares no speed in opening the jaws and fitting in Steve’s nipple with difficulty.

Their eyes are locked as he shuts it, and the pinch captures the base. Steve stares down at the pin standing out from his chest, the darkening lilac point protruding past that. Tender brushes of dark hair tease that perfected canvas.

Gods, he vibrates from the pleasure and Bucky almost drops the second peg, applying it with nearly the same steadiness and slowness as the first.

The quavering redoubles itself and his slut is getting off, or trying, lost to some kind of emotional relief they both needed for so long. He snatches up the crop and slips in front of the bed, dropping to his knees.

Steve rocks his hips as much as the ribbon wrapped around his parted thighs allows. The momentum tugs and pulls the bright scarlet fetters around his cock, squeezing his engorged shaft. The wider he spreads his knees, the tighter the boa constrictor coils wrap him.

On his knees, Bucky watches his boyfriend fuck the air, admiring how rigid and engorged the fat cock becomes. A bow lightly teases Steve’s heavy balls below its twined knot, unraveling hems tickling the drawn pair.

He adds the crop to the mix, every ticktock of the second hand on their clock marking the tap to those swollen balls and the ribboned shaft.

The swelling will tighten the ribbons, but not dangerously, only enough to give a shocking sense of fullness. Not that the super soldier lacks for a glorious cock in delicious proportion with the rest of him.

Unable to help himself, Bucky clamps his mouth over the exposed crown fully and slides his lips down until the engorged skin becomes satin. He slows to slurp at the flavour of salt and citrus that is _Steve_ , the essence of the man in delicious, viscous form.

As the flat of his tongue runs over the hypersensitive slit, Steve’s composure wobbles and he tries to push more in to Bucky’s hot mouth. The molten lava beckons a balls-deep plunge, and the best the ropes allow is maybe an inch.

He can’t let the impatience stand without correction. The crop smacks into the side where cock and balls meet, most of the impact absorbed by the ring. From experience in their bedroom back in New York, Bucky knows exactly how much his cockslut can take before enough is too much.

From Russia, he knows exactly how much makes him faint, after going hoarse from screaming. A profound difference here.

He twirls the crop gently and taps the strong ring of muscle hidden under Steve’s bow wrapped cock, behind those churning balls. The suckling resumes until Steve is fairly twitching against his mouth, those kisses smothering the vibrating moans pouring out of the sergeant.

He needs to give this. He longs for it.

They both forget the world outside as somehow the blond stays upright, captive to the wet circle of lips nursing on the flared bell of his glans like it’s a particularly tasty popsicle. Bucky’s hair flows around his shoulders as he moves, working his tongue along the deeply cut ridge, then back up to that special spot on the underside of the head.

Spectacular, in every sense. But not quite fulfilling, even if cock and nipples are at unbearable sensitivity. He gives a few light smacks to the slit down to the ribbons with the crop that has Steve falling backwards onto the bed, prepared to hump the air.

He’s ready.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Bucky finally peels off his pants and kicks them to the corner. He scoops Steve up in his arms and positions him in front of a huge mirror, a vast silvery circle set at an angle to capture everything in the room.

Lots of lube ends up messily slathered between them, mostly gracing Bucky’s raging phallus, plenty drizzled by the palmful over his hole with its fetching little trinket that bounces against his buttocks. Another caress over his testes leaves the blond incoherently uttering his love in the profane language of angels.

A kiss to his ear, and Bucky whispers, “I know, sweetheart, you need your hole filled. Hold on, patient now…”

Lining Steve up just right is hard. He weighs more than he looks, and when his head is spinning from the pure desire coaxed out of every moment, he can barely offer more than limited assistance. It’s all part of the game -- no, the blessing -- of drawing him out from those deep walls to bare his heart and body to love.

His body leans against Bucky’s, dependent wholly on him for support. That solid line never moves, for all the soldier has to coordinate his movements ever so carefully. If the ring were to slip, a shower of copious white cum would puddle the floor. Along with everything else, Steve produces prodigious amounts.

Bucky works both his thumbs into the tight curve of those clenched buttocks, forcing them wide enough for his shaft to slide between. As he guides himself lower, the aching cries out of his lover grow louder, more insistent.

“Look,” he utters in a guttural snarl.

For a brief moment, he captures the view Steve has in the mirror; his metal arm flanking the red ropes binding the blond captain, stiff cock and red ribbon and blue clamps on dark nipples, crop marks blotching beautifully warmed skin.

Being lifted, bodily hoisted up to mount Bucky’s cock. The brunet slides his legs open wide to support them both, leaving nothing exposed. Comfortably seated, he can reach to either of Steve’s knees and keep him spread so nothing is hidden from his blurry, passionate gaze. Nothing to conceal the fact he’s about to be impaled on his best friend and lover’s cock.

Nothing to stop him from seeing himself stuffed and defiled.

A mumbled moan probably protests the balls, and those too will be fucking the both of them when he starts to descend. His rim quivers against the blunt head pressed up to it.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

“Nnn-nnn.”   
  
“Good.”

Steve tightens up to a bite at his neck, teeth sinking down onto his shoulder, and when that sweet suction of a kiss begins, he’s being filled in one long, slow thrust all the way to the brim.

To the end of the line.

Deep as they’ve ever been.

When they bottom out, the frantic spasms enveloping Bucky almost make him cum on the spot, his cock assaulted from all sides by the velvet and the oiled spheres making a narrow space tight.

Massaging his shaft, the sensation is indescribable. He pulls back and pushes forward in microbursts, all to savour the slow oscillations. For Steve, it has to be even worse, the pressure from taking the full length of Bucky’s shaft through his dilated pucker and the big spheres alongside finding all those nooks and crannies otherwise neglected.

Steve watches. It’s all he can do -- watch himself being lifted and his greedy ring pulled out slightly to tug at the slick pole plunged into him. He’s almost as insensate watching how Bucky slides back inside.

How can he take that much, Bucky won’t ask, can’t imagine. All he knows is his role demands stringing out his pleasure, volcanic and volatile, as long as he can to push Steve into a peak unknown.

The sounds of their fucking -- it’s lovemaking and rutting together -- fill the room. He grips Steve firmly, lifting him up until only the head of his cock lies inside the snug ring. Each descent slams them together and takes some of the fight out of his stretched anus, the better to ease up the next round. Over and over, he is pulled up and brought down.

When the beads cluster around Bucky in a sinuous coil, he can start thrusting in earnest, being stimulated and in turn stimulating.

That breaks Steve Rogers the way no war has.

He bounces up into the air and would be an uncoordinated shimmer of limbs without the ropes. The cyclone of sensation rolls around the axis of the cock plugging him, pistoning so deep.

Loving words poured into Steve’s ear eventually falter, the effort to think and speak impossible in the maelstrom of such heated desire. Bucky reverts to kissing and biting at that spot on the neck until it carries a purple welt, and he moves up to kiss under the ear, down lower to bite and suckle. He needs something in his mouth.

They grind and flex in the mirror, two lovers out to destroy one another, mutually assured of their self destruction. Release comes potent and hard upon the blond three times -- each moment wresting shouts from their throats, muffled by gag and supple kisses.

Each time Steve milks his cock, Bucky about loses it. Only by pulling nearly fully out and waiting a few seconds for the hard clenching to pass can he survive, and barely then, shooting a few gushes of precum into place. He usually loves watching Steve’s hole close up after withdrawal, and plowing his way in slowly, letting them both adjust to the decadence of a lover’s warm stretch.

Not tonight.

The rules are gone, everything reliable ripped apart by expediency. When his arms tire, he resorts to rapid thrusting, bouncing his captive lover to balls-deep depths. Head spinning, his own release approaches in a staggering collision, moving at light speed.

Bucky reaches around and fumbles under the ribbon for the snaps holding the cock ring together. He yanks and pulls with the strength enough to rip doors off armoured vehicles. The tensile band snaps.

He feels the tension clench hard on him and two spheres cradle his tip, another bulging against the wall of Steve’s rectum, right over his prostate. The seesaw plunge becomes an inescapable presence, and with the relief valve open, the outcome is guaranteed.

Bucky holds on with both arms around Steve’s shoulder and chest for dear life. Any port in a storm.

The blond blows first, a cry of ecstatic triumph and victory as the explosion begins at his core. Radiating bursts demolish any resistance and he coats himself from navel to chin in a hot white line.

Bucky has hardly any time to react, it all happens so fast. He kisses the corner of Steve’s gagged mouth, biting the strap to pull down the gag. Their mingled moans and cries are a prayer, a testament, to the power and the glory of love.

The orgasm hits harder than a freight train. He ceases to fight as Steve has surrendered to the rapture.

They collide into the brilliant white light that reaps all sense, deprives all sense of self, uniting them for one brief blinding moment with infinity.

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Infinity War trailers.


End file.
